


Unfortunate Liminality

by orchidcactus



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-06 10:41:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/417940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchidcactus/pseuds/orchidcactus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shepard and Garrus deal with the consequences of fraternization. Angst with a healthy dose of schmoop and gunfire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Rating:** M, for canon-typical violence and language, as well as adult themes/situations.

 **Pairing:** f!Shepard/Garrus

 **Warnings:** None.

 **A/N:** Set after ME2. Assumes 'Arrival' has been completed. Written for a prompt; end notes to follow. A huge thanks to K, for proofing something outside of her fandom. All remaining errors are mine.

I welcome constructive criticism, feedback makes me dance in smarty pants, and I always answer each message.

* * *

**Unfortunate Liminality**

Garrus is in the battery, mid-way through a simulated firing sequence when the console alarms, telling him he's tweaked the electromagnetic field beyond tolerance.

Scowling, he punches in a series of commands, poking at the console until the alarm abruptly silences. If he'd been running the sequence live, he would have cooked most of the power cabling between the battery and the core. It wouldn't surprise him if he got a nasty call from the Tali for even thinking of drawing power like this.

"Crap," he says, realizing that's the third time in as many hours that he's let himself get so off-task.

He'd be lying to himself if he said he didn't know why he kept getting distracted. One minute he was concentrating on monitoring data, and the next he's trying to puzzle out this... _thing_ with Shepard.

Other than the fact that he was starting to feel seriously sleep-deprived, the problem wasn't with the sex. Shepard hadn't been joking about testing reach and flexibility, and one thing Garrus had always appreciated about the commander was that when she put her mind to something, it happened.

The first time - hell, the first couple of times - it hadn't worked out for either of them. Their bodies were never meant to fit together and sexual frustration didn't seem an adequate description for the panting, sweating mess they'd made trying to overcome issues of _friction_ and _pressure_ and _oh-fuck-almost_...

She had flopped back on the bed, red-faced and frustrated. _Evolution is a cold-hearted bitch and can get fucked,_ she'd said. He'd seen the deliberate opening and as he'd leaned in to nuzzle the damp skin of her neck, he'd made her laugh with a warm purr of, _Because neither of us are._

But somewhere in the middle of it, they'd found a rhythm that worked with the ways they could fit.

Sometimes they took it sweet and slow, time marked only by the passing of cold stars above and the hum of the ship. Other times it was hard and fast; nails, teeth, and talons. Aggression checked only by the limits of their bodies as they pushed one another over the ragged edge.

 _Y'know,_ she'd teased, _I figured you'd be good for at least some loud moaning_ , _but you're so quiet._

He'd chuckled at the sheer human naivete of the statement. _Old habit. Turians hit puberty in the military. Open barracks, ten recruits each. And until I was promoted, I bunked in common crew quarters. Turians like their sleep; you get good at being quiet and discreet when you get off._

So, she taught him to scream her name.

 _You ever think of letting me run this show?_ he'd asked, tracing a line across the sweat-slick curve of her hip. _No complaints, obviously. But, turians... there are things we do that would... translate, if you're willing._

Something undefinable had flickered in her eyes. _I've never been good at the concept of 'sleep while you drive'._

So, he taught her that power can be found in ceding control.

He's jarred from his thoughts when the console alarms again. Shaking his head to clear it, he checks some data and after adjusting the power input a bit higher, begins the next run.

The real problem is that he's starting to feel like the _thing_ with Shepard was becoming a little more than two shipmates easing tension, or - to use the human phrase Joker had _so_ helpfully provided over a game of cards - friends with benefits.

He'd always respected her, that wasn't even in question. He didn't have a better friend. She was a hell of a commander with a talent for inspiring those who followed her. These were all solid, concrete facts.

But, for a turian who likes things black and white, it seems like the equation is starting to get a little gray, because, somewhere in the middle of all those facts, he thinks he's starting to have feelings for her.

Feelings that went well beyond friendship, mutual respect, and mind-blowing sex.

"And that's perfect timing," he mutters.

They're facing a war fifty-thousand years in the making, and he suddenly realizes he's falling for the person who was for all intents and purposes his commanding officer. And, even if she felt the same way about him, it wasn't as if either of them needed any more complications in their lives, especially the kind of complication that got soldiers killed.

Fraternization regs existed for a reason, and even on a turian ship, there were limits. When soldiers crossed the boundary from physical to emotional, when _easing tension_ became _falling for_ judgment was impaired. At best, impaired judgment might result in a compromised mission and injuries. At worst, things really went wrong and innocent people died.

Turians – good turians – knew when they crossed the line. The solution was black and white. One of two choices. Either one of the parties asked for a transfer, or they ended the relationship.

He already knows he's not a good turian. What he can't quite get a fix on is if he's even crossed the line beyond friendship. Defining what he feels for her is proving to be impossible, and counting on previous experience isn't helping; it's not like he's made a habit of falling in love with his bed partners.

He stares blindly at the console, thoughts turning facts over and over like a poorly programmed algorithm stuck in an infinite loop.

She depends on him, on and off the field.

He refuses to abandon this mission. Not while she needs him.

If this _thing_ is getting too close between them, could he really walk away, be only her friend? A dull weight settles in his stomach at the thought.

The battery doors open behind him and he clears his throat, hoping his emotions don't color his words when he asks, "Shepard. Need me for something?"

It's become a joke between them, like a script they follow, and as he glances up from the console, he sees she's smiling. She's holding two cups of steaming liquid, and as he keys a final sequence in, she sets one on the console.

He nods in appreciation, but he can't help noticing she doesn't look tired, or even remotely distracted. He wonders if that's a human thing or a Shepard thing or if out of the two of them he's the only one over-thinking the issue. Maybe he really is just sleep-deprived and jumping at shadows; that makes more sense than thinking he's falling for her.

"You got a minute?" She holds the second mug between her palms, lacing her fingers over a faded N7 logo. He wonders vaguely if the heat of the cup will turn the skin of her palms as pink as the hot water in her shower does her back and neck.

"Just busy with the usual. You know, calibrations," he tells her, picking up his cup, breathing in the citrus scent of it. Something herbal, he thinks. "Thanks."

"Gardner said it's dextro-safe." She lifts her own drink; the coffee's surface ripples in tiny waves as she blows across it, chasing away the tendrils of steam. "Ask me, though, it smells like something a varren leaves when it lifts its leg."

"Like that crap you drink is any better." He takes a drink of his tea, surprised at the taste. Herbal, yes, but when had she figured out exactly how much sweetener he likes? "Thanks."

He looks back to the console and taps another command in, pretending to analyze at the data.

"So." She leans her hip against the rail beside his station, watching him work. "You feel like some time off the ship?

"Take it that you found something to steal from Cerberus?" he asks, mandibles flexing in a smirk he really doesn't feel.

He knows she doesn't even need that much of a reason to go planet-side. When Shepard hears 'anomaly detected' she practically bounces on her toes like a prize fighter getting ready for a bout. Of course, pissing the Illusive Man off has become her new hobby, so stealing from Cerberus has to be a special bonus for her.

"I really need to work on my poker face." She blows on her coffee again, forehead wrinkling. "Nothing major. Some cargo stashed in an abandoned fuel refinery on a dead planet, and a few Blood Pack mercs. Plus, Jack's climbing the walls and I want to try out that scope upgrade."

He nods. Last time he was in engineering, Donnelly wouldn't stop complaining about the noise Jack had been making, and it would be a lie if Garrus said he wasn't interested in seeing the upgrade to Shepard's rifle.

Besides, getting off the ship would be a welcome distraction from his own thoughts.

"Yeah. I'm in," he says, tapping at the console as it chimes again. He knows the words to say to make her grin, divert her attention. "You know me. Never pass up the chance to blow off some steam."

Shepard coughs, trying to cover a laugh. He sighs, on cue, and looks at her. "Right. I keep doing that, don't I?"

"Hey, it's not like I'm complaining." She takes a careful sip of coffee that doesn't do anything to disguise the warmth of her smile."Meet you at the Kodiak in... twenty? Give you time for breakfast?"

When the door closes behind her, he takes his visor off and rubs his eyes, trying to get his head on straight.

Shooting something will definitely help.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Except for Jack, the mess hall is empty when Garrus steps down the battery walkway stairs. He digs through the dextro section of the cooling unit, pulling out green uva fruit and some sliced nepa meat.

He takes his tray and the cup of tea Shepard gave him, and sits down opposite Jack. The biotic flicks her eyes up at him, then down again, pulling her tray closer as one marked hand curls around the edge between them.

He wonders if she's conscious of doing it or not. Even if her ink didn't spell out the reasons behind the action, the cop that's left in him would spot the behavior a klick away.

She stabs at something on her tray that can only be described as gelatinous. There's a mug of muddy-brown liquid steaming at her elbow, chunks of white bobbing at the surface, and he knows Shepard has briefed her. It's a weird thing the commander does, one they've all come to expect, bringing hot drinks along with mission orders.

"You look like shit," Jack says.

Huh. So, maybe she's not the only one with tells. Or maybe it's just Jack's idea of polite breakfast conversation.

"Thanks." He takes one of the uvas and runs a claw around it, splitting the skin, peeling the green fruit carefully. It's over-ripe, but he doesn't mind. It's better than what he ate on the SR-1. "Glad to hear the way I look is important to you."

"Shepard stop putting out?" She looks up, eyes taking on a predatory gleam, lips parted enough to show the flash of white teeth. She picks one of the white globs from her drink, flicks it onto her tray, and frowns at the sticky residue left on her fingers. She puts finger and thumb into her mouth, her frown turning into a pissed-off scowl as she takes them out. "Or you having problems getting it up?"

Thing is, Garrus gets Jack, or at least he understands how to deal with her when she's like this. It's not enough to tell her fuck off, and forget acting noble and telling her it was none of her business. She's drawn to perceived weakness like a varren to blood.

He pops the skinned fruit in his mouth, chewing slowly, staring at her. Then he pushes a napkin at her and nods at her fingers already back in her mug, fishing out more sticky floaters.

"No," he says, picking up his fork, chopping the nepa into smaller pieces, "I cut her off until she lets me use the Widow."

This earns him a snort. "Not the Cain? If you have dick envy, might as well go all out. I might even buy your story about you keeping it in your pants."

"Cain's not my style." He grins at her, mandibles wide, teeth showing. "Loud and messy doesn't always equal impressive."

He's spared her reply by Thane walking into the mess. The drell sets a mug of coffee down, then pulls out a chair for himself. He sits down, but leans toward Jack, eyes fixed and intent on her as any target. "In my experience, sheer force is rarely as satisfying as rapid reacquisition, combined with exacting precision and _control_."

The excessive subvocals on the final word is almost enough to make Garrus choke around his food as he tries not to laugh; it's plain to his ears that Thane is deliberately baiting her. Of course - and he's sure the drell knows it - to human ears it speaks of something primal and sexually aggressive.

Jack actually blinks, before a slow smile spreads over her face.

"You're okay, Krios," she says, pushing back from the table. She wipes her fingers on the napkin, then tosses it back at Garrus as she stands. "You need to work on it."

She picks up her mug, glaring at it. "And tell your girlfriend if she's going to keep bringing me hot chocolate she needs to stop putting fucking marshmallows in it. Christ, drinking one of those things is like swallowing."

Garrus waves his fork at her, but she's already walking away, disappearing around the corner to the elevator. He hears the doors to it open, then close.

"Shepard been to see you?" he asks, nodding at Thane's cup.

"Yes," Thane answers wearily, taking a drink of coffee. He grimaces at the taste, setting it back down. "I was relieved to hear Jack would be taking my place."

Garrus notices the fatigue in the drell's voice, but that's not the kind of thing he's going to comment on. He takes a bite of the nepa. It's imitation, or, worse, vat grown. He washes it down with a drink of tea.

"Really? Figured you'd want to see Shepard's scope upgrade."

"I would very much like to. However, the ventilation system conducts sound into Life Support all too well." Thane frowns, stirring sweetener into his coffee. His spoon clinks against the inside of the mug, the sound distinct against the background noises of the quiet ship. "Jack has been unusually agitated as of late. The pacing, cursing, and destruction of storage crates is... disruptive. Frequent disruption leads to inadequate rest and meditation, and, ultimately, disconnection of body and soul."

No wonder he sounds like he hasn't slept. Disconnected doesn't seem to be a bad way to describe it.

"I get that,"Garrus agrees, poking another piece of nepa, thoughts going to Shepard.

Apparently, this isn't lost on the assassin.

Thane taps the spoon against the rim of the cup, then sets it on the table. He regards the dark liquid as he says, "I see you're troubled by your own disruptions."

Garrus flicks his mandibles in irritation, hoping he hadn't been so transparent when he'd been talking to Shepard earlier. She doesn't need to be worrying about his mental state.

No, he thinks, what she really doesn't need is for his actions to start any rumors that might put her leadership in question.

And if Thane has spotted it...

No, he thinks, Thane's not the type to start rumors. Some of some of their conversations drifted into sensitive topics and Thane hadn't shared those details with anyone.

Garrus would be the first to admit he was suspicious as hell of the assassin when Shepard picked him up on Illium. Flashy entrance and obvious skill weren't enough to earn his trust, although he did put a lot of faith in Shepard's instincts. She was very seldom wrong about anyone.

Later, he'd come to realize she hadn't been wrong about Krios, either, there was more to the guy than his unnerving stare let on.

It had started by talking shop in the armory, cleaning weapons at the long table during Jacob's off shift. Rifles, past missions. Impossible shots they'd each made. Not bragging, just a casual exchange between colleagues who have a complete understanding of what wind and heat and distance can do to a fragment of metal propelled downrange by mass effect fields.

It was something only another sniper would appreciate.

Turned out, they had other things in common, too.

Putting a bullet in Sidonis' head still felt _right_. He hasn't second-guessed that decision once. But, where anger and hate and vengeance had consumed his thoughts, once Sidonis was dead, all that was left was guilt over failing his team.

He hadn't thought to ever talk about it until Thane had told the story of his wife's death, and a detailed account of how he'd tracked and executed her killers. The drell had stared at nothingness, eyes cold and black and empty.

 _Humans claim that nature abhors a vacuum_ , he had said. _When the last of the batarians lay at my feet,_ _bleeding, broken... When he had suffered in equal measure every indignity and pain and horror visited_ _upon Irikah, I truly understood the phrase. Once I had exacted my retribution... all that remained to fill the void was my endless sorrow._

Garrus had nodded, not looking up from the pistol he was cleaning. _I spent a lot of time on finding and eliminating Sidonis. I didn't expect absolution. Didn't expect a clear conscious. But, now that it's done.. well, it's not what I expected._

Even Shepard didn't seem to have a complete understanding of the feeling.

Their conversations eventually arrived at her. It hadn't been as tense as it might have been. There was no posturing or circling one another, or anything even remotely unprofessional.

On the other hand, Garrus understood that in his own way Thane cared deeply for Shepard, and the natural response was to be at least a little suspicious of that.

Thane had rested his elbows on the table between them, and folding his hands together, had offered one of his rare half-smiles

 _You have no need for concern. Shepard has eyes only for you. Even had I the inclination, drawing her gaze would be impossible_ , he'd said. _On the battlefield and in spirit, you are matched forces. An archangel and a siha._

Now, Thane is calmly drinking his coffee, gazing at the area of the counter where Gardner usually stands.

"Were I the type to make assumptions, I might assume you are troubled by your relationship with Shepard."

"That obvious, huh?"

"Hardly. I am far from an expert on deciphering turian expressions and emotion." He glances at Garrus, but Thane isn't the only one with difficulties puzzling out aliens and Garrus can't get a read on what his expression means. What he hears though... there's tension in the drell's subharmonics; tension and something else he can't quite get a fix on. "But I have been in a similar position."

Thane's eyes lose focus abruptly, and even though he's only seen it a few times, Garrus knows the other sniper has slipped into a memory.

There are no two ways about it, drell solipsism episodes are a little unnerving, and seeing Thane like this now is every bit as uncomfortable for Garrus as the last time it happened. Feeling like he's intruding, he goes back to his breakfast, enduring the taste of the nepa.

It doesn't take a genius to realize that, save for his son, Thane would give anything - everything - to turn back time and walk away from Irikah after she blocked his shot, before he loved her.

And just like that bad feedback loop, Garrus circles back to Shepard.

The question is, should he walk away from her?

The depressing line of thinking isn't exactly helping his mood. He hears Thane sigh and knows he's back in the present, but Garrus frowns at his breakfast, appetite gone. His omni-tool beeps; the twenty minutes Shepard allotted him are up.

"Sorry. Have a shuttle to catch." He starts to push away from the table, but Thane is already up. He's standing behind his own chair, fingers resting lightly on the back. The fact that he managed to do it soundlessly, while Garrus was looking down, isn't lost on the turian.

Garrus gives him an odd look. Thane usually avoids drawing attention to his skill-set. It makes the crew less nervous when they're not reminded the resident assassin could appear at any moment and break their necks.

Whether the drell did it intentionally isn't in question. Thane doesn't make mistakes.

"Consider this an unsolicited comment." A pause, while his focus shifts to a point over Garrus' shoulder. "We are all better for having known Shepard, better in battle, better people. But you... have also given her soul connection. Her aim is truer when you are by her side, her steps lighter."

Garrus might not be able to decipher alien facial expressions, but there are few species better at sorting out vocal harmonics than turians. Whatever memory the drell had been reliving hadn't been pleasant.

"Treat such a gift carelessly and you will know nothing but regret."

_... all that remained to fill the void was my endless sorrow._

What can he say to that?

Thane's inner eyelids flick closed, followed by the outer, and he takes a half-step backward.

"I- Forgive me. I spoke out of turn." He gives a half-bow, then turns on his heel and leaves the mess in a stiff, graceless march.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

Garrus is pretty sure the run to the sun-baked, radiation-soaked planet wasn't supposed to go down like this. He presses back against a twisted steel bridge support, waiting for Shepard to set up and give him covering fire so he can move again.

Heatwaves rise from the field of rubble surrounding him, distorting shapes and distances, and oily smoke from nearby fires blackens the air. If it weren't for his visor, he wouldn't be able to track Shepard and Jack as they dart through the broken chunks of concrete and metal, the occasional Blood Pack round dogging their movements.

He's pretty sure this wasn't in the plan, because -as bad as some of Shepard's plans are- they don't usually end up with her squad pinned down by mercs without an escape route.

"Hey... Comman... " Jack's voice cuts in and out, the radiation playing hell with communications until the energy spike passes and the signal stabilizes again. "...care if I sum up this clusterfuck?"

"I might not have the most complete understanding of your language, but isn't 'clusterfuck' a summation, all on its own?" He leans his head back against the hot metal of the support, regretting it as heat bakes through his fringe.

Even without the mercs, this would be one miserable planet. Makes Palaven seem like a temperate vacation spot.

The steel support he leans against once belonged to a bridge. Which is now gone. It hadn't been much to look at before it was blown apart, but it had spanned the narrow gap between the two sheer-walled sides of an ancient seismic rift in the planet's crust. If Garrus chose to break cover and look over the edge, he'd be able to see the wreckage resting far below in the murky shadows of the chasm floor.

The bridge had also been their route back to the Kodiak, until the Boom Squad set off the explosives they'd put in place long before the _Normandy_ even dropped into the planet's atmosphere.

Shepard had walked into a trap. Which meant Garrus and Jack had been right there with her.

The refinery itself is behind them, nothing more than a smoking ruin. It had been rigged with enough explosives to level a small city, but whether it was due to vorcha incompetence or Shepard's continuing luck, she'd managed to disarm some, and only a fraction of the rest detonated. Instead of a city, it was only the building that came down, but it effectively blocked the route to the rear.

Their left flank is obstructed by the almost vertical face of a toppled fuel silo, their right by a wall of smoke and flame as mounds of industrial waste burn.

They're trapped in a long rectangle of scorched, hard-packed earth alongside the ravine, with limited cover, and mercs raining fire down on them. So, yeah, he doesn't think Jack's description of the situation is too far off.

Garrus takes a chance and peers out from behind the support, only to have a vorcha pop up on the opposite side of the chasm and open fire on him. He mutters a curse, jerking back out of sight. If he turns and stretches up a little, he can see through a space in the metal where two plates sheared apart when the bridge collapsed, but there's no room to bring his rifle up and try to get off a shot.

He watches the vorcha shift side to side, and wants nothing more than to put a round through its spiny head.

"Stay put, Garrus. I'm almost there. You too, Jack. No reason for us all to bunch up and make an easy target for an asshole on the Boom Squad," Shepard says. "And, Jack? You know I always welcome the thoughtful, constructive insight of my crew."

"God. Sometimes, you're sort of a bitch for being such a girl scout. You know that?"

"Just when I don't think you care, you say something like that."

Jack laughs. "Here's how I see it. Your dumb ass thought there was really something worth stealing here. Like even fucking Cerberus is stupid enough to repeat the same mistake for the fourth time."

"What can I say? They played to my weakness for heavy weapons. Three times before it wasn't a trap. And I ended up with some tech even Mordin can't figure out."

Garrus raises an eye-ridge, shifting his weight, trying to move into the sliver of shade offered by the support. "Thought the problem was that he took it apart and couldn't put it back together?"

"Six of one; half a dozen of the other." Shepard's closer now. A breeze picks up and clears the smoke for a minute, and he can make out the shape of her dark armor as she zig-zags toward him. The vorcha spot her too, opening fire, and she vanishes as she activates her tactical cloak. She sounds like she's out of breath when she says, "But don't let me interrupt your evaluation of the mission, Jack."

"Right. We waltz in, kill a few guards, and that one dumb-as-fuck krogan -and didn't I tell you there weren't enough of them?- and, no shit, the rest come in behind us and blow the bridge. Somehow you manage to disarm most of the explosives in that refinery so at least we're not blown to fuck. And now I'm stuck here with you two, instead of on the other side of this hole ripping vorcha to shreds."

"You missed the part where it's fucking hot. And even if we do get back across, there's no fucking cover on the other side." Garrus thinks he does a passable job of imitating Jack's inflection.

"Now I'm hearing it from you, too?" Shepard is on the move again; he uses his visor to track her progress as she winds her way closer. He can hear the breaks in her breathing and knows she's counting seconds until her cloak goes down. "Remind me why you're here and not Thane?"

"That's pretty harsh, Shepard." Garrus finds himself counting with her. Eight seconds for every sprint, six to recharge. "I might be worried, if I thought my style and charm weren't enough."

"I'm almost there, Garrus. Sorry it's taking so long," Shepard says. "Jack, position?"

"Holding at your fuck buddy's four, thirty yards out," Jack says, then adds, "If you would've brought Krios, at least we'd have something nice to look at while we sit here with ours thumbs up our asses."

The sun has moved enough that Garrus feels like he's being cooked and he'd love to find better cover, but when he turns and looks through the split in the metal again, the same trooper is still in position, the top of his head all that's visible.

Even though Shepard is only data on his visor's screen right now and he can't physically see her, he hears her rifle crack at precisely the same instant the vorcha's head explodes. It's a hell of a shot.

His visor tells him she's still fifty yards back and to the left; the hundred plus yards between her and the vorcha would be nothing for even a mediocre sniper. But with the size of the target plus smoke and heat distortion limiting visibility almost to the point of complete obscuration even he'd be hard-pressed to make the shot. He gives the turian equivalent of a low whistle. "Impressive!"

"Damn. I'm Commander Shepard, and this is my favorite scope upgrade on this entire shit-hole of a planet."

Then she's counting under her breath again, and he hears the sound of her feet striking the ground. There's not much in the way of cover this close to his position, only a broken wall thirty feet off his seven-o'clock, so he's watching for her when her cloak falls away and she reappears where he expects.

She gives him a wide smile and he can't help but grin back. She's in her element, and that is something he can't help but enjoy watching.

"There is cover on the other side," she says. "And, I have a plan."

Garrus chances another look, because he knows he didn't miss potential strategic points. Then he looks with utter disbelief at Shepard where she crouches behind the wall. "Cover? You're calling a dead krogan 'cover'?"

"Shepard, that's at least a thirty-foot jump across that gap." Jack points out the other flaw in the plan.

"Good thing I'm with a biotic who can throw things my size around like toys."

Garrus feels his mandibles drop, and shakes his head. "That's..."

"A bullshit plan. Besides, how are we getting across? Vakarian is too heavy for me to throw, and I'm not asari enough to levitate myself over."

"That satellite tower on the opposite side, a hundred yards to the left. And I kept some of those explosives when I disarmed them. I collapse the tower across the gap, the support structure beneath the dish array will give you two enough cover to cross."

"Forget what I said. It's not bullshit, it's just stupid."

Garrus sighs. "I'm agreeing with Jack, here, Shepard. Which should be a sign this is a very bad plan. You sure we can't wait for reinforcements from the _Normandy_?"

"I'd like to focus on the positive here, that this mission and my plan are building unit cohesion. But, humans don't tolerate radiation long-term like turians. Unless we can get to the Kodiak, we're eight hours out from getting a signal through to the _Normandy_ , and some of us don't have real armor, only shields."

Shepard doesn't look unhappy, but he catches the edge in her voice. He knows it's been a sore spot between her and Jack for a while now. Her own shields and armor would keep her safe long enough, but Jack's shields can't recharge indefinitely.

There's a silence, then Jack's voice. "Damn it. Sorry people. She's right." Another long pause. "I need to move up, and you're gonna need to be as close to the edge as you can get, and then take a running start. With all that shit Cerberus put into you, and your armor, I'm betting you're heavier than you look."

"She is," Garrus says, grinning at Shepard.

"Cute." She shakes her head. "Anything else, Jack?"

"Yeah. I can't do this if I can't see you. You can't have that cloak on, so your ass needs to be moving if you don't want to get shot. When you start to jump, I'll hit you. Maybe it won't kill you."

"Got it. Moving up now." She gives Garrus an appraising look. "Scoot over, we're going to be roomies for a minute."

Her cloak goes up, and even though his translator chokes over the human vernacular, he understands that she intends to share his cover when she sprints toward him. Of course there's no room to 'scoot over', and she skids to a stop in front of him as her cloak fizzles out.

He knows she's standing too far back and the vorcha will be able to see her, so he grabs her by the front of her armor, pulling her close to his chest plate.

They hear the distinctive _whump_ of a Boom Squad missile launcher firing, and since there's nowhere to retreat to, all they can do is turn their heads away from the blast.

The missile whistles in, thumping against the ground next to them with enough force Garrus feels it through his boots. Dirt and pebbles explode into the air, then rain back down, rattling dully against their armor.

The dust from the impact starts to settle, and even though they're still under small weapon's fire, she tilts her head up and smiles.

"You got a minute?"

There's a smudge of soot across the tip of her nose and dirt in her hair and she looks... happy. As though she's certain she's going to survive this mission. As though the weight of the Reapers and all that Cerberus has done to her has somehow lifted. His heart does a stupid little skip and even though this is not the time or place, he smiles back.

"Can it wait a bit? I'm in the middle of a firefight."

Her eyes crinkle around the corners and he's looking down at her like a teenager with his first crush and then she slips her arm around his waist. His mandibles twitch in response and he releases his grip on her armor so he can brush the back of his gloved fingers against her cheekbone.

"Jack?" she says. "I'm in position. Let me know when you're ready."

Shepard leans into his touch, eyes still on his.

There's a coating of grime on her face, cut with cleaner lines where sweat has streaked it. The wind has teased her hair from behind her ears, and it's stuck in damp tendrils to her forehead and temples, and instead of the usual antiseptic scent of the soap she uses, he smells hot metal and smoke.

He wonders what she'd think if he told her she looks beautiful right now, like she was born to do this.

He turns the audio-out of his comms off.

"So... come here often?"

Shepard's comms pick up his words and they can hear Jack making a gagging noise as she runs.

Shepard grins, and her audio goes off, too. "Did you read a book? 'Worst Human Pick-Up Lines Ever'?"

"Well, I had some time to kill while some algorithms were compiling." He carefully, clumsily, begins pushing the stray strands of hair back into place. "And seeing you smile... makes me happy."

Her expression softens and the arm around him tightens.

"Can I ask you something?" He's tentative with the question, because it definitely falls into 'wrong place, wrong time' category. But, why the hell not? One of them might be dead in the next five minutes.

"Sure..." There's a little hesitation there, but mostly curiosity.

"Why is it when you bring drinks to everyone before a mission, mine is the only one that's right?"

It catches her off guard. His visor tells him that her breathing speeds up slightly, as does her heart-rate.

And her cheeks take on a flush.

"You're... blushing?" he asks, genuinely surprised. "You do that?"

She looks down, then back up, and surprises him again by standing on her toes and kissing him firmly.

Huh. He definitely wasn't expecting that, but he's always been the type to quickly adapt to changing conditions.

So, he ignores the fact that they're standing in poor cover and that the mercs are occasionally taking pot shots at them, and kisses her back.

Turians don't cry, and turians don't kiss, but, again... he's always been adaptable. It certainly hadn't taken him long to get the hang of this. When her lips part and her tongue darts out, he relaxes his mandibles and opens his mouth, meeting her tongue with his own.

She breathes in with a soft noise of happiness, and he bends his head down, feeling her settle back down off her toes. The arm behind his back moves to his side, with her hand above his hip, seeking the small gap between the plates of his armor. Her fingers dig into the thick material, and the light pressure against his waist makes him wish he wasn't wearing armor.

He opens his hand, gentle against her cheek, then runs his palm over hair to cup the back of her head. He's rougher than he probably should be, pressing his mouth hard to hers, tongue slipping between the distinct line of her strange flat teeth, but she responds with equal force and after that he stops thinking about much at all.

And because things always come down to unfortunate timing, Jack picks that moment to interrupt.

"For fuck's sake. If you two start going at it right there, I'm shooting you both and calling it an act of mercy."

The biotic is crouching behind the wall at his seven Shepard had just come from, and as Shepard breaks away from him, Jack rolls her eyes and acts like she's checking the thermal clip in her pistol.

Because today seems to be a day of firsts, Shepard blushes again as she keys her audio back on.

"Sorry, Jack," she says.

Garrus grins down at Shepard, all teeth and wide mandibles, and touches her flushed cheek.

"Yeah. Whatever. I'm probably going to drop your ass into that pit when you're half-way across, so if I were in your place, I'd have my tongue down his throat, too."

"Anyone ever tell you, you have a way with words?" Shepard asks, then looks up at Garrus. "Ready?"

"If I say 'no', will it change your mind?"

"Garrus. You watch my six and I'll always be fine." She locks eyes with him and the unguarded warmth in her expression makes him want to kiss her again.

"Jack," he says. "You'd better do this now."


	4. Chapter 4

 

If he's being honest with himself, Garrus doesn't expect to live to be an old turian. He truthfully doesn't foresee himself surviving long enough to have his plates fade and start to peel or his eyesight grow dim, or to have a flock of great-grand-nephews and nieces surround him as he rambles endlessly about days gone by.

It's not that he's suicidal or reckless, it's simple statistics. He's a soldier, in a time of war, who ends up in bizarrely dangerous situations. The odds really don't calculate well in his favor.

But if he does make it to be old and faded, he'll never forget the sight of Shepard being flung through air, biotic energy surrounding her in a blue glow. He'll never forget the sound of Jack cheering when Shepard crashes to the ground on the other side, activating her cloak even as she rolls to a stop in the dirt.

And another memory that will never leave him is the feeling of relief when her cloak times out again, but she's already laying prone behind the questionable safety of the krogan's corpse.

Even the vorcha seem to be impressed. Or at least surprised. It takes them a few seconds to regroup and start firing at her. Garrus manages to pick off two before they remember he's there, and force him back behind the support.

"Headed... tower... mark." Shepard's voice breaks up as the radiation spikes again.

"Copy, ready on your mark," he comms her. "Jack, could use the extra fire power up here. She's got eight seconds on that cloak and eleven seconds of ground to cover. She won't make it before they spot her; she'll need all the help she can get."

Shepard waves a hand and her cloak comes up, and then she's running toward the tower.

"One. Two. Three. Four..." he counts, checking his rifle's thermal clip.

"Five. Six. Seven," Jack says, voice tense as she readies herself to move in beside him. It will take a few seconds to reach his position, and he'll be on his own to protect Shepard during that stretch.

"Eight," Shepard's voice pants in his ear.

He pivots from behind the support, bringing his rifle up in a smooth motion. He can't afford to look toward Shepard and watch her progress as she makes the final push, not when targets are popping up in front of him, the vorcha obviously overjoyed that their quarry has made such a critical error.

 _Spirits, but there are a lot of them_ , he thinks, before falling into the easy rhythm of acquire-the-target-breathe-squeeze-reacquire. His visor streams data he doesn't consciously see; he only takes the stats he needs to put down the next trooper.

Then Jack is beside him, Carnifex firing as quickly as she can pull the trigger.

He's heard it said that time slows down in high-stress situations. He's never bought it. If anything, time accelerates as though propelled by a faster-than-light drive.

Later, he'd be able to count the heat sinks at his feet and would know how many times he fired, but in the moment... it feels like only a few. He breathes in, squeezes the trigger, time distorts, and he's put down half a dozen mercs without consciously realizing it.

Then the mercs realize they're being dropped faster than pyjaks on a Tuchanka firing range and time resumes its normal march. The vorcha finally catch on that there are still two fronts to this fight, and half of them shift to firing at him and Jack.

They step back into cover, and this time it's Jack looking up at him.

"Is this where I put my hands down your pants?"

Turians can't roll their eyes either, but he gives a huff of exasperation. "Shepard? You okay?" He didn't know he was so tense until her comms pop with static, he hears her voice, and his muscles relax.

"Yeah. My omni-tool caught a ricochet, though. Think my cloak is out; I'm setting up to the right of the tower. Give me a second... some of these idiots don't think I can get them from this distance."

A series of sharp cracks echo through the scorching heat, the sounds spaced in an overlapping cadence as she eliminates targets. Garrus can't help but smile. It's something only another sniper would appreciate.

"Don't you think it's a little twisted that gunfire turns you on?" Jack lifts an eyebrow with the question.

"Like you don't get off when things explode."

There's _crack-boom_ from the direction of the tower. The metal comes apart, squealing in protest as the explosion tips it, and finally an earth-shaking crash as it collapses. Jack's lips curve into a smile. "Forget what I said this morning. You're okay."

There aren't many places to hide between where they stand and where the end of the tower has come to rest, but Shepard is already picking off targets.

"Jack? Garrus? Any time. I'm down to..." she counts, "...eight sinks, here."

Her Widow barks again, the noise distinct against the background of chattering submachine guns.

Jack shrugs, and without giving any warning, pushes away from him and starts running. Garrus counts off two seconds, and follows her path toward the tower.

It's a longer run than he realized, but apparently Shepard's doing a decent job of distracting the mercs, because he doesn't catch any rounds while he scrambles around knee-high chunks of concrete, dodging twisted rebar and broken glass. As he charges around the end of the tower, behind the cover it offers, he sees Jack waiting. She's bent at the waist, hands on her knees, panting.

"Shit, it's hot here."

"Can't argue with that." He tries to raise Shepard over the comms, but all he gets back is a hiss of static.

"She's fine," Jack says. "Now move your bony ass over this thing."

The long cylindrical base of the tower is bowed from its impact, curving down slightly in the middle, but the ladder that once ascended the side of it now makes a decent ledge that they can side-step along while leaning against the cylinder for support. The base itself is pockmarked with rust, the cancer leaving gaps in their cover, but for the most part they're out of sight from enemy forces.

All in all, it's not a bad escape route.

Except the thing groans and creaks and feels like it's shifting the entire time they sidle across.

"That's creepy as hell," Jack says at one point, looking down into the chasm.

"Uh-huh." Garrus keeps his eyes firmly up. After following Shepard so long, he's become a firm believer in the 'don't look' policy. It's not the height that bothers him; it's just that every time he breaks the rule and does look, husks or scions or something equally obscene appears. It would be just his luck for a thresher maw to rear up out of the depths.

"You two okay?" Shepard's voice hints at worry.

"Yeah. We're good, Shepard." The opposite side is ten feet away and as Garrus shuffles two more steps, he glances down from his vantage point, looking for her.

Her red hair stands out like a target. She's laying belly-down in the remains of the tower's support structure, barrel of her Widow aimed through a long, horizontal tear in the rusted metal.

"How's it look?" he asks.

She glances at him and one corner of her mouth tugs up in a quick smile, then she resumes her watch of the enemy's position. "Better, now that you two are here."

As soon as he and Jack are over solid ground again, they drop off of the tower, ducking low as they join Shepard's position.

When the tower went down, it left an uneven circle of metal behind; the side where Shepard detonated the explosives is only ankle-high, but the jagged portion left between them and the enemy comes to Garrus' waist, making for decent cover. The real bonus is there's shade this time.

She nods at them, then jerks her chin to where the vorcha are holed up. "I think there are two left."

"Two?" Garrus unclips his rifle from the magnetic holds at his back. He drops next to her, on his stomach, sliding his barrel through the same opening. "Couldn't leave any for us?"

She laughs, and sights through her scope. "Jack? I'm not sure how long my cloak will last, and you're faster than I am. You said you wanted to rip some vorcha apart?"

"Hell, yes." Jack doesn't hesitate, crouching low as she moves away. "I get killed, I'm haunting you two."

Jack takes off and the troopers spring back up. Garrus notices that there are three, not two, but Shepard corrects that problem almost immediately by turning one's head into a fine red mist.

And Jack... is doing her thing. A biotic wave hurls dirt and rock upward as it pulses toward the second vorcha. When it strikes the merc, it blows him out of hiding, the force sending him flying into the gorge. Jack ducks behind the twisted shell of a tanker truck, signaling back to them that she's good.

The third vorcha is sidling side to side, firing as it screams random insults.

Shepard sights in on it, but there's no way Garrus is going to let her get the final kill-shot. He shifts his rifle, zeroing in on center mass, and squeezes the trigger.

And blinks when he almost misses.

He'd mistimed the shot, hadn't led the vorcha enough as it ran sideways. The round meant for the trooper's heart went through its shoulder instead, and from the screaming echoing through the rubble, it was a safe bet it was trying to regenerate.

Going in after a wounded vorcha is never a good idea; it's always safer to let them get back up.

He and Shepard lay there in silence for a minute before she gives him a sidelong glance "You rushed that," she says, amused.

"Yeah. Timing was off," he answers with a self-deprecating click of his mandibles. He knocks the spent thermal clip from his rifle, the sink bouncing off his arm, sound barely registering as he presses the next into the firing chamber.

She shrugs. "It's what you get for trying to steal my shot."

He turns his head to look at her. "What?"

"Don't play all innocent turian with me, Vakarian. You do it all the time." She's close enough he can see that she still has the smudge of soot on her nose.

He tries not to grin. Fails miserably.

"Maybe you should learn to get a fix on the target faster."

"Really."

"Yeah. I could probably teach you, sometime. Or, show you some vids, maybe."

"Pass, thanks. I know what kind of vids Joker sends you to watch."

"Can I...?" He reaches up with one finger, wiping at the smudge, but only succeeds in smearing it more. "Huh."

He's not sure he's ever seen the expression she wears as she looks back downrange, but she moves close enough to bump her armored shoulder against his. "We all have days when our timing is bad."

He's been thinking more than he'd care to admit about bad timing. And with that thought, he's back in a feedback loop.

"Yeah," he mutters. She has no way of knowing that he's not thinking of kill-shots, but of her, of the fact that his brain is so muddled that maybe even timing doesn't matter any more.

The vorcha chooses then to shout, "Can't kill me!" and for some reason, this makes Shepard laugh.

Jack's voice crackles over the air next. "Did you even hit him?"

"Can you do some clean-up for us, Jack?" Shepard asks.

"On it."

They watch through their scopes as Jack charges again. The last vorcha shares the same fate as the one before, falling screaming over the edge.

"That should be it? Your visor picking up anything else?" She's waiting to hear from Jack, but from the radiation crackle on the comms, it will be a minute before they can reestablish communication.

He scans, sees nothing, and shakes his head as he grins. "No. Should be clear... and I can't believe this plan actually worked. It was pretty long odds."

Shepard snorts. "Jack? You see anything else?"

"Ju... some varren... chained..."

"Good. Don't mess with them. Maybe I can talk Wrex into sending somebody to take them. Meet you back at the Kodiak in ten."

Garrus looks downrange as though he's doing another sweep and smiles to himself. Only Shepard would spare varren. Then again, if there had been a way to keep Urz on the ship, she would have done it.

Something occurs to him and he gives her a curious look. "In ten? It's five minutes max to the shuttle."

"Yeah," she says and rolls to her side, then up on one elbow so she can look down at him. She deliberately turns her comms audio output off again. "You haven't kissed me recently. Think five minutes is enough time to solve that problem?"

He grins, toggling his audio as well. He turns and pushes up from the ground, weight on his hip and hand. He's above her now, but puts a hand on her hip as he leans in close and says, "I think I can do that."

He brushes his mouth across hers, light and careful. She nips at his upper lip in response, careful little bites without force or direction. Then she pulls back, puts the tips of her gloved fingers in her mouth, tugs off the glove, and drops it between them.

"I hate not being able to feel you," she says, bare hand fitting perfectly against his scarred mandible. Her thumb makes a slow sweep up, so gentle over the damaged flesh and plate that the gesture is almost tentative. The same unguarded affection has returned to her voice and the line between black and white, _blowing off steam_ and _falling for_ , blurs a little more.

"Shepard..." he starts, only to falter. Not something they can talk about here. Her eyebrows arch in a question, and the only answer he has for now is to bend his head down and kiss her again.

Her fingers ghost over the bandage, not hesitating there, slipping to the back of his head, darting up to his fringe. Her nails scratch lightly and he gives a warning grumble; he's trying to be gentle and it feels too damn good when she does that.

She laughs against his mouth and her nails dig in. The jolt that goes through him is enough that he can feel his pelvic plates start to separate, and he knows exactly how uncomfortable it is to walk around in full armor when he's even partially extended. He pulls back and glares at her.

"What?" she smirks. Her lips are red and a little swollen, so maybe he was kissing her harder than he thought.

"Don't play all innocent human with me, Shepard," he reuses her line.

"Well. You keep kissing me like that, Jack is going to have to shoot us both."

"Right. Mercy killing." He leans forward again, but this time simply to press his forehead to hers. The gesture feels right, like it fits as well as her palm against his mandible. She fits, he thinks. Or maybe they fit. Any way he looks at it, the line is getting grayer by the second.

His voice is a little rougher than normal when he asks, "Maybe we should get back to the ship? Where we can take our time, upset the crazy biotic as little as possible?"

"Your plans are so much better than mine."

He sorts through the notes in her voice and he'd be a very dense turian if he didn't recognize the emotion there. Unless he misses his mark, which he seldom does, things are getting blurred for her, too.

Her mouth turns in a wry smile, and then she's scrambling to her feet, scooping her glove and Widow up as she goes. He sits up and grabs the stock of his own rifle, frowning at the grime coating it.

"Going to be cleaning weapons and armor for days," Shepard says, as though she reads his mind. She pulls her glove back on, and out of habit, taps her omni-tool, seeming to forget that it was damaged.

Her tactical cloak flickers, and then her shields spark, and maybe it's the a combination of radiation and screwed-up tech, but without warning she's surrounded by light brighter than a sun going nova.

Garrus isn't normally a poetic type of turian, but even the most literal of minds could appreciate his next thoughts.

She's not a _siha_ , not an angel who must bend her will as a goddess commands. Shepard is a force all of her own. She's a star at its brightest, burning twice as hot, and spirits help anyone stupid enough to stand in her way.

"Well, that's annoying," she says. "Hope I don't glow like this the whole ride back."

She looks down at him, and offers him her hand.

He stares into the light and her outstretched hand, and knows without a doubt he'll walk beside her as long as he can because he's gone way past _falling for_.

His heart thumps in his chest.

"Coming with me?" she asks.

_Always._

The light goes out as suddenly as it flared up, but his heart is still hammering. He takes her hand and stands, pulling her roughly to him.

He registers her surprised expression, but this time he isn't trying for gentle. He tilts his head down and kisses her, open-mouthed and demanding, tongue pressing into her mouth. She makes a small noise, her tongue meeting his as she tries to respond in kind and trace the harder lines of his mouth.

He's not having it; this is his show.

He kisses her harder, not yielding, humming low and dangerous. This isn't like earlier, against the bridge support, a thing constructed between them, made of give and take.

This is all him. Sharp, zeroed in.

He loves her.

He loves her and he's not sure he's ever wanted anything more than he wants her right now.

His arm wraps around her shoulders, other hand somehow managing to clip his rifle behind him so he can rest his fingers on her waist.

 _I hate not being able to feel you_ , she'd said, and he finds himself agreeing wholeheartedly with that sentiment.

He groans in frustration, because he doesn't want to lose contact, but the gloves have to come off. He jerks back and the movement startles her; her face is flushed, confused. He starts yanking off his gloves and she understands in a flash, and begins tugging at hers.

He's done before she is, and he cups one hand behind her neck. He's not as careful with his claws as he could be, but it's not like they're razor sharp, and past experience has taught him the feeling of them on her skin is something she likes as much as he does.

"Any time, now, Shepard," he says, voice rasping in the air between them.

Her right glove is stuck, partially melted to the sleeve of her armor, and she's struggling with it, but Garrus has run out of patience. He steps in close again, trapping her hands between them as she works at the glove.

He slides the tips of the claws on her neck up, dragging them through her hair until he can wind the strands around his fingers. She's cursing in frustration, so he drops his head, touching his lips to the skin of her neck.

He breathes in, smelling dirt, and smoke, and sweat. He flicks his tongue out, and tastes sharp salt, and then starts a line of small bites toward her ear.

She mutters something that sounds like _fuck, yes_ , but he can't be sure because it's said around a sharp gasp of air as he scrapes his teeth over her neck. There'll be a red mark there, but he's beyond caring.

He digs his claws into her waist, knowing he can't hurt her through the ballistic cloth. It's something he can't do when she's unarmored, something that he could do if she were one of his own species. He'll never regret she's not turian, but this? Knowing he doesn't have to hold back?

Forget being uncomfortable on the walk back; he's so far extended against the inside of his armor, it's painful.

"Shepard," he pants against the curve of her ear, "...we need to stop. Either that, or I plan on going much, much faster."

She's finally got her hands free, and she wraps them behind his head.

"God. Your plans really are better," she says, her nails sinking into the softer hide below his fringe. The jolt that goes through him this time makes him reflexively dig his claws into her waist. She drops a hand over his, and at first he thinks he _has_ hurt her, but instead of pulling his hand away, she curls her fingers against his claws, increasing the force.

A dim part of his brain fires. When had she figured out exactly how much that would turn him on?

Her hand flexes on his again, and he moans in response, the sound lost in their kiss.

She's going to bruise. Her mouth, the place he grips her. They both know it. Neither of them care.

If perception of time is altered in battle, that's nothing compared to the way it buckles now.

Everything around him seems to condense, collapse, until it's only Shepard fitting against him. Her mouth, her lips, her nails, her teeth. All he can focus on is her and the way she challenges every move until he's not sure if he's groaning or growling.

He uses the hand on her waist and his greater weight to push her backward toward the metal wall.

Her back hits the wall and they break apart, out of breath, staring at one another. His claws are in her hair and she's gripping his fringe, and the way she's looking at him makes his blood feel like it's burning in his veins, because he's seen this in her eyes before.

He knows exactly, precisely, without a doubt, what she wants.

She wants to make him break apart, into a million jagged shards under her hands. She wants to push his limits until he screams her name. She wants to meet his every advance with aggression he'd only expect in another turian. And then she wants to give him control. Every breath, every heartbeat, every moment, and he's having a hard time not pulling off her armor and taking it right there.

A tremor runs through him, and he can't help the way his eyes narrow on her or the low hum that he makes.

"Jack?" she says, voice surprisingly level. "Make that fifteen."

There's a long hiss of static, but Shepard's already popping one of the seals on his lower armor.

"Shepard, my plans may be better, but I love the way you think," he says, reaching to help her, and -

The varren that leaps over the wall hits her with the force of a grenade.

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

Garrus steps off the elevator and stops in front of Shepard's door, standing there as the weight in his stomach moves to his chest. It presses, cold and heavy, as though it's determined to squeeze the air from his lungs. He lifts his hand toward the intercom, only to drop it again. Part of him wants to turn around, get back on the elevator, and pretend the last few hours never happened.

They'd been caught, almost literally, with their pants down in a hostile environment. They'd been seconds from screwing like two hormonal kids, ignoring every bit of training they'd ever received and every bit of common sense two seasoned veterans should have.

They'd gotten lucky. Lucky Shepard hadn't bled out. Lucky Jack had extra medi-gel and EDI picked up the weak signal from the Kodiak between waves of radiation. Lucky Chakwas and Mordin were as skilled as they were.

This was the reason fraternization regulations existed. This was the reason some lines shouldn't be blurred, because even Shepard's luck could only hold so long.

The control panel in the center of the door is green, still, he taps the intercom.

"Shepard? Okay if I come in?"

"Hey, Garrus. Yeah. Just doing some cleaning." Her voice has a strange, flat quality to it, and the weight in Garrus' chest squeezes a bit tighter. She's a good enough soldier to understand how badly they'd screwed up planet-side, a good enough commander to know something has to give.

She's sitting on her bed cross-legged, Widow partially broken down in front of her, cleaning kit laid out neatly beside it. Her hair is damp from the shower and she's wearing what she calls _tank-top-and-shorts_ , but all his eyes want to go to is her bruised shoulder and the new puckered scars that start below her clavicle and march up the side of her neck.

There had been so much blood. He's no stranger to gore, but thinking about that much crimson spraying from her throat makes him feel slightly ill.

Chakwas does good work, he thinks. Between the doctor and Shepard's upgrades, the bite marks will be gone in a week.

"Garrus," she says, not looking at him. She's tense; even if he couldn't hear it, he could see it in the way she holds herself. She picks up the metal ammunition block and runs her thumbnail over the surface, checking one end for inconsistencies where the cutter shaves off tiny particle slugs. "Need for me for something?"

It takes him a second to figure out she's following their script, using his lines. He knows how this conversation goes, and at least that makes his part a little easier.

Easier. Right.

"Have you got a minute?" he asks, walking down the steps, stopping at the foot of her bed.

The words are hollow, without any humor.

"I'd say I'm in the middle of some calibrations, but..." There's no humor there, either. She glances up at him, then back to her work as she sets the ammo block down and picks up the firing chamber next. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Fine." He shifts his weight from one foot to another, then avoids the subject he needs to talk about by nodding at her shoulder. "Broke the bone?"

"Yeah. Just the collarbone, though. Teeth got in around the plate; bastard couldn't have planned it better," she says it with a casual shrug, then another as if to demonstrate the range of motion. "It's sore as shit, and Chakwas says I need to rest it for a few days, but it's fine."

He catalogs her injuries automatically, filing them away as though he's making a field report.

The bruising is the worst around the bites, of course. Most of her shoulder is purple and swollen -despite the medication he'd watched Chakwas pump into her- the sickly color broken by the bright pink scars. She'd refused pain meds, so 'sore as shit' is probably Shepard stubbornly understating her injuries.

Another smaller bruise sits above her knee in a dark irregular circle, and he's seen his share of near misses to recognize it for what it is. She hadn't said rounds made it through her shields, but it's obvious to him a vorcha slug struck there. He's willing to bet she has more, under her clothes, from when she was prone behind the krogan.

Her cheek is scored by twin lines of red, in the precise place he touched it when they were behind the bridge support. Another set of lines set wrap around the side of her neck, and all the marks share the distinct look of the wounds left by a varren's claws.

There's a cold-pack taped to her right shoulder, the one she rolls out of habit. When Miranda's around, Shepard likes to joke that the reason it always hurts is Cerberus got the shoulder wrong, that the joint feels off. Garrus thinks it has more to do with the fact her preferred weapon is an anti-tank rifle that kicks like a son of a bitch.

She leans over to to pick up a cleaning rag, and her shirt pulls up on one side. Above her hipbone, in the curve of her waist, is another mark. It's not as vivid as the others marring her skin, and he knows if he were to put his hand over it, the fit would be perfect.

As hard as he was going at her before the varren attacked, he's surprised the bruise isn't darker.

He's a good enough soldier to understand something has to give.

One corner of the white medical tape holding the ice pack to her shoulder has curled away from her skin as the adhesive gives. She drops the cleaning rag, then reaches up, pressing the tape back into place, only to have it curl back again.

"Hand me that tape?" she nods at the roll on the low table in front of the couch.

He picks it up and gives it to her, watching as she picks at the end.

"Twenty-second century and they can't design tape that comes off the roll," she says, finally catching the end and pulling a strip free, tearing it off with her teeth. Despite the easy words, the strain in her voice is obvious to turian ears.

He waits until she secures the ice pack again before he speaks.

"Shepard. We need to talk."

"Wow, that's..." She seems hold her breath for a moment. "With humans, that conversation ends with 'but we can still be friends'."

He blames translator lag for his sudden inability to form a reply before she clears her throat and starts speaking again.

"Yeah. Guess it's the same with turians," she says, reaching for the solvent. Her hand trembles.

"Huh. I... Hm."

And in his mind's eye he tells her, _Yes, I think it's for the best we call it off. There's too much riding on this for us to make mistakes._

She fumbles the solvent, as though her fingers are numb. _You're right,_ she says. One corner of her mouth twitches, like she's struggling to smile. _Guess we're better off as friends._

His mandibles press tightly against his jaw, but she's back to disassembling her rifle and as he steps out of her quarters, all he's left with is the image of her bowed head.

He sags against the wall of the elevator as it descends. Turians don't cry any more than Shepard does, but he can't help the trill of sorrow that fills the small space.

And if that spot of moisture that fell to the back of her hand was a tear drop, he'd never admit to seeing it.

When the Reapers come, they still work perfectly together, and it's together they figure out how to take the bastards out. They watch as the first Sovereign-class ship they bring down crashes into Tuchanka, and she turns to him with a wide grin.

_Shepard and Vakarian kicking ass and taking names._ _Just like old times, Garrus,_ she says. She grins as she steps close to him and raises a hand as though to touch his shoulder. Then she seems to remember there is no more Shepard and Vakarian. Not like before. No one else notices the awkward silence between them, or the way her smile becomes strained as she drops her hand.

System after system, planet after planet, the Reapers go down in one explosion after another. The galactic community calls her a hero, a savior, and a rising star.

But Garrus knows better.

She's a sun going nova, and he'll cover her six as long as he's able.

At the celebration following their final victory, before they part ways, he catches her eye over the crowd. She raises her glass in a salute and he copies the gesture. Before she turns away he thinks he sees her rub at her eyes. Later, Liara asks, _Did_ _Shepard seem upset earlier?_ and he answers, _Probably tired... she did just defeat the Reapers._

He's a soldier without a war and flinches from the thought of retiring, of sitting idle with his thoughts. He returns to Palaven and is placed in command of an anti-terrorist and smuggling task force. He wonders if Shepard would laugh at the irony of Archangel having official backing.

There's a celebration following his appointment. A female turian wearing Thracia Colony markings raises her glass in a salute, and Garrus' father touches his son's shoulder and says quietly, _She's a surgeon, from a good family._

She is beautiful, of course. Dark plates and, when she speaks of her work, green eyes that are as sharp as any battlefield commander's. He knows within moments that she is a good turian.

His father pings his omni-tool that evening. _A match between you would be beneficial to both our colonies, and to Palaven. Surely, even you can see this._

Hours later, another message. _Garrus. I know this isn't what you hoped for, but I promise you will come to care for her. We've had our differences, but I'm asking for your trust in this one thing._

A month after this he asks the beautiful surgeon if she would do him the honor of becoming his mate, but all he can think is he'll never need to lay down covering fire for her. She'll never burn as brightly as a sun.

She's a good turian. Of course she accepts.

Garrus includes Shepard in the list of of formal invitations.

A week after the joining ceremony he receives her reply via extranet: _Garrus. Congrats! Just got back from an undercover thing near the Far Rim. Spectre crap and a mess with some slave traders. Sorry I missed the party. Sending a few things for you two; don't let either sit on the shelf._

When the wedding gift arrives, he unpacks a box of thermal clips and a bottle of brandy. His wife turns the bottle to look at the label, her mandibles flaring in surprise. _This... costs more than we make in five months._

Garrus polishes the bottle off at the shooting range that night, spends the next three on the couch.

Their son is born a year later and Garrus stares in absolute amazement as a tiny clawed hand wraps around his finger. He presses his forehead to his wife's in gratitude.

A daughter follows the next year. Her eyes change from milky newborn blue to green; Garrus wonders if they're the eyes of a sniper or a surgeon.

For each child, Shepard sends a charm on a chain, engraved with their name, date of birth, and clan insignia. Garrus chuckles when he realizes the tokens are carved from thresher maw teeth. His wife looks at him in surprise, and when he gives her a questioning glance, she says, _It's good to hear you laugh. You don't do it enough._

His daughter turns three. Palaven hosts a joint-species planning summit. The _Normandy_ and Shepard arrive with all of the fanfare, and food, and idle conversation befitting the Savior of the Galaxy. His part isn't forgotten, of course, but what is he compared to a force of nature?

At the celebration, as he stares at the sea of kiss-ass politicians, a voice beside him says, _Makes the Reapers seem like a cakewalk, huh?_

She's paler and thinner, and burning so brightly he has to look away for a moment. When he can bear to meet her eyes, he sees they are as sharp as ever. Assessing him, seeing his weaknesses and strengths.

She grins and shakes his hand, both of hers taking his one for the briefest of moments.

And then they're at a table in the corner, swapping war stories and drinking far too much. He introduces his wife, but she has no interest in the lies two old heroes tell one another. She excuses herself politely and Garrus sees the flicker of pain in Shepard's eyes as they watch her walk away.

Anyone else stupid enough to approach their table gets a glare from Shepard that would make an elcor cringe. As the night - and the number of empty shot glasses in front of her - progresses, she takes to glaring at the room in general.

_I've missed talking to someone I trust. All of these people... they only want to be near me because I'm the big fucking hero. All of these people, and I don't trust any of them._ She tosses back another shot of vodka and the clear liquid makes her eyes water. She stares at the glass, lips pressed into a thin line. Then she says, in a voice too brittle and lost to ever belong to Commander Shepard, _I miss you, Garrus._

She stands before he can think of a reply - before he can think at all - and without meeting his eyes, walks out of his life again.

The children are asleep when he and his wife get home. She turns to him and her voice is layered with resignation and sorrow when she places a careful hand on his forearm and says, _It was good to meet her. Will you be up late?_

That night, he decides it's best he sleeps on the couch.

Two days later, he brings his wife a bottle of wine and an apology. She gives him a weary sigh, but lets him touch his forehead to hers. Three more weeks pass; she tells him she's pregnant again.

He follows Shepard's career as she does what she does best. He watches a hundred news feeds and in every one, she remains unsmiling.

His youngest son has just learned to walk when his omni-tool pings, alerting him that Shepard's made the news again. A stunned Emily Wong stands in front of the camera and reports:

_Today, the galactic community mourns as news of Commander Shepard's death is confirmed. In what is being called the greatest tragedy of our generation, Alliance Command verifies the commander was struck and killed by friendly fire during a routine training..._

He doesn't hear the rest, only Shepard's voice in his ears. She'd told him once, on a burned-out planet, facing bad odds, _Garrus. You watch my six and I'll always be fine._

She'd been a sun at its brightest and now she was gone. She'd burned out and left him behind.

He closes his eyes, and even though turians don't cry, it's his wife who holds him while he keens.

"Garrus?"

He blinks.

"Sort of lost you for a minute." Shepard is staring at him, worried frown creasing her forehead, bottle of solvent gripped in her hand, partially disassembled Widow still in front of her. "You okay?"

_Treat such a gift carelessly and you will know nothing but regret._

"I... no. No, I'm not." He steps closer, sitting on the bed next to her, reaching for the solvent. He sets the bottle on the bed next to her knee and reaches for her hands, surprised at how cold her fingers are, noticing - not for the first time - how small they seem compared to his.

Her eyes search his features and he hesitates, then releases one of her hands so he can carefully remove his visor. There are times seeing her heart and respiration rates displayed are especially useful. Now it only seems intrusive, and he wants nothing more than what has to be between them.

He sets the visor across her leg and she stays silent, but swallows hard and takes his empty hand again. He strokes his thumb across hers; fragile bones under fragile skin against tough, metallic hide.

"I thought I was going to lose you," he starts, then pauses, unable to look anywhere but down at their linked hands. He was an idiot to think that taking off his visor would help with what is between them. "What happened today..."

"Was my fault." She squeezes, hard, her fingers turning pale from the pressure. It takes him a moment to realize it's not reassurance; she probably doesn't even realize she's holding on for all she's worth. "It was reckless and stupid and I take full responsibility."

He looks up, irritated. "Huh. I seem to remember me shoving you against that wall and pawing at your waist. There's nothing you need -"

"Tell me," she interrupts him. "Tell me what would happen if we were on a turian operation and that happened."

The blunt question strikes like a blow. His next breath is pained.

"We'd be separated immediately. You'd be demoted. Or worse."

"And you?"

He knows it's a trap, can't believe he stumbled into it. "An informal reprimand. Nothing on my record."

"Why?"

She's being ruthless now, but there's no way to avoid the question, and he's never lied to Shepard.

He narrows his eyes, gives the answer in clipped syllables.

"It was your command. Commanders are responsible for their subordinates' actions."

"Precisely." Her voice cracks and she pauses until she regains control. "And every military organization in the galaxy has regulations in place for this exact reason."

She draws back, pulling her hands away. He feels off-balance, his missing visor leaving him more vulnerable than if he had been without his clothing. He refuses to reach for it like a child clinging to a favorite toy.

Garrus Vakarian is many things, but he's never been a coward. Even if he never gets the chance to tell her he loves her, and carries the words unspoken for the rest of his life, he's not going to flinch from this.

He stares into her sniper-sharp eyes, and waits for the inevitable, struggling to ignore the part of his mind that is screaming that she is the future he is intended to have. Not trying to live as a good turian on Palaven. Not married to a woman he could never love, despite his every effort. Not hearing from a newscaster Shepard had died at an ally's hand.

"There are so many people depending on us finishing this thing. The Reapers _are_ coming. I can't just be another commander. I have to be perfect. There is no room for shit like what happened today. No room for me to selfishly put myself first."

"I think turians have a solid understanding of the meaning of duty." He doesn't intend to sound so bitter.

"I don't... I don't think you understand. If you would have been hurt, or killed..." She stumbles over the word. "I don't think I could live with a mistake as _fucking selfish_ as that. If I were another soldier, it would be bad enough. As your commander, it's unforgivable."

Maybe he is a coward after all, because he can't let her finish without telling her. Shepard and Vakarian. They fit together. Even if it won't change her mind, he's going to say the words. "Stop. I won't -"

"Just let me talk." She interrupts and takes a deep breath as though bracing herself before she continues. "It's unforgivable, and yet, here I am. So, stupid and so, _so_ fucking selfish ... and asking for your forgiveness."

The hope in her voice is raw enough to drive his heart into a fast, jerking rhythm. He stares at her, trying to find the right words, daring to feel hope of his own.

"You never have to ask," he finally says. He would follow her into hell, stand beside her even if that meant her light consumed him, letting it burn him until all that was left was dust.

"This time I do. I can promise you one thing: nothing like this will ever happen again."

"I don't think either of us will screw up like that again. But, if you feel like I have to say the words... I can't lie to you. There's nothing to forgive."

"Garrus -"

He doesn't want to argue with her, won't concede this point, so he interrupts by letting his mandibles flare in false humor. "I am disappointed there won't be sex in the middle of firefights."

A weak smile disappears as quickly as it came

"I can't do this without you, Garrus. When things... when _I_ go to shit, I need to know there's someone behind me I can trust. I need you."

She reaches for his hands again and when he curls his talons against her fingers, she blinks rapidly. Her eyelashes darken slightly, and he realizes with surprise it's because they're damp with moisture.

"I thought you came up here to break it off, and I... " she trails off, then shakes her head, unwilling or unable to complete the thought.

He can imagine all too clearly what that future looks like, and the thought of living it makes him want to pull her in close. Instead, he says, "Shepard. No matter what the Reapers or Cerberus or whoever throw at us, I'll always be here for you. Always."

She holds the next breath she takes and leans forward, lowering her chin, sighing out only when he mirrors her gesture, and rests his forehead against hers. She slides one hand up his arm and over his cowl, cupping the back of his neck, and her fingers are cool on his hide.

"I don't know what's coming, can't promise anything," she says, so softly he almost doesn't hear it. "But, when we walk out of the other side of hell, I'll take you up on always."

He closes his eyes, and even though she won't understand exactly what his subvocals mean, they hold each other while a soft hum expands from his chest.

-o-

_Sometimes it's nails and talons and teeth. Sometimes it's sweet and slow. It's give and take, a rhythm set to the hum of engines and the cold stars above. He knows he loves her and even if she's a sun going nova, he'll always have her six._

END

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-o-

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Even More Author's Notes:

About the title. If twilight is the liminal period between night and day, I'd like to think that 'falling in love' is that same hazy threshold between the changing mental states of 'affection' and 'in love'.

I set out with the goal of writing a non-linear story, and chose to fill an old kmeme prompt requesting Garrus and Shepard ending their relationship, and how their lives played out, but once I started writing it, I couldn't handle the angst. I mauled it about until it became this story.

While the result failed to meet my original goal and I had to cheat to meet the prompt request, the hopeless romantic in me still calls it a win.

Thanks for reading!


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